


It’s in His Kiss

by counterheist



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counterheist/pseuds/counterheist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 2005, and Spain can now marry the man of his dreams: Italy Veneziano. Spain enlists his close friend, Italy Romano, to help him on the path towards wedded bliss, but something feels wrong. It isn’t until Spain acts on some special advice that he sees what was in front of him all along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s in His Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> I confess Spain’s a bit stupid in this. I hope, though, that it isn’t obnoxious.

Romano is in love with Spain.

Spain doesn’t know this.

It’s always been this way, and Romano lives with it. The danger of losing what they already have, beautiful if imperfect, is enough to stay Romano’s hand. His cards include the jack of hearts, but the king isn’t there and neither is the ace. And until Romano has the perfect, royal, romantic flush lined up, he isn’t going to jeopardize this friendship they do have. This friendship, where Romano can walk into Spain’s house and kiss Spain hello because they are friends and that is how friends greet each other under the Mediterranean sun. This friendship, where Romano can sit on Spain’s couch, and eat all his food, and make fun of all of Spain’s favorite teams. This friendship, where Romano can pretend he has all he ever needs from Spain anyway, all he ever needs until Spain stops dicking around and realizes the love of his life really did just call Barça a bunch of sissies.

Spain is in love with Veneziano.

Veneziano doesn’t know this.

It’s always been this way, or it’s been this way for years, ever since Veneziano grew up into the nation he’s become. Spain lives with it, but living with it is not enough for him. And now, finally, it doesn’t have to be. It’s late summer, 2005, and now Spain can do what he’s always wanted to do. But first he needs to straighten out a few things.

“Barça is amazing! Romano, don’t make me take your wine away from you. I can see you’ve had too much!”

Romano curls into himself, like a cat, when Spain makes good on his threat, and they wrestle over the half-full glass as much as any friends would when said friends don’t really want to spill Pinot Grigio all over their official jerseys. Spain is wearing a gift from his national team because he’s still immensely, amazingly hopeful despite everything that’s happened with them. Romano is wearing his honorary blues, also a gift, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to handle Spain like this without them.

They grapple lightly until they stop.

Whether it’s because he finally spilled the wine on his carpet or because they are laughing too hard to continue, Spain doesn’t know. But it’s at that moment that he decides Romano, once his protectorate and now his friend, is the only person whose help he can ask for.

“Roma,” he breathes between his subsiding chuckles, “Roma, have you ever been in love?”

It’s at that moment that Romano, loudly bemoaning the loss of his drink, wants to stop playing the game. He wants to fold, walk away from his spot at the table, and maybe punch the dealer in the face. The card game metaphor is just a metaphor, so he can’t, but he’d still really like to.

“Yes,” he says, “I have. So?”

“I need your help.”

The help Spain needs goes like this:

Veneziano is beautiful and Veneziano is kind. Veneziano is friendly and Veneziano is attractive too. In short, Veneziano is all that’s perfect in the world and Spain would like to marry him and do horrible things to him afterwards, like take him to the park and hold his hand in public. It’s disgusting.

But Spain can’t do it alone. And that’s where Romano comes in.

“No.”

“Romano, please.”

And that, despite all the misgivings screaming in his ears, is where Romano comes in. “Fine.”

In theory Spain should know how to do this himself. By now he’s had plenty of lovers, to Romano’s displeasure, and more than a few of them have been men, to Romano’s greater displeasure. For fuck’s sake, Spain’s the one who legalized gay marriage: he should have the balls to ask out Romano’s brother on his own. He already did back when the law was first passed, acting all breezy, as usual, the very put-upon Boss. ‘Oh men can marry, will you marry me?, no?, then will you?’ At the time Romano didn’t think Spain was serious. Spain asked Veneziano, sure, but then he asked _Romano_ too. And Spain didn’t. He doesn’t—

Regardless of any of that shit, this is how it is, and this is what Romano has to live with.

Romano loves his brother. He _loves_ Spain. And so even though he’d love to screw this up for Spain by showcasing Veneziano’s faults and ruining their happiness, he won’t. It’s very tempting, but he won’t. Surprise, surprise, but Romano’s better than that.

“And remember, Vene, he hates Barça, a lot, so you should open by insulting it.”

Still, nobody’s ever called Romano a _saint_.

“Why would he hate one of his own teams, ve… Romano…” Veneziano is decked out in a suit and they are together, in Milan, waiting for their trains to arrive. “Romano, are you telling the truth?”

Obviously he isn’t, but if Veneziano is dumb enough to fall for that one then he doesn’t _deserve_ Spain. Veneziano deserves nothing as it is, because he wouldn’t agree to go to dinner with Spain, alone, until Romano told him that the reservations were already made and that Romano already promised to go to that stupid meeting in Germany.

 _Germany_.

There is a train, arriving soon, that will take Romano to Germany, so that Romano can sit across the table from that fucking musclehead and try to explain, alone, why Italy is in the state it’s in. So that Veneziano can go to Spain. So that Spain can be happy. Romano is doing this out of his own fucking free will, and if Spain isn’t over the _moon_ , if he doesn’t get _everything he ever wanted_ out of this night, Romano isn’t sure he’ll be able to curb his urge to break everything in sight.

Even after all of that whining and ve-ing, Veneziano keeps making things difficult. He fidgets with the bouquet Romano gives him and asks question after annoying question. By the time the train to Spain arrives, all Romano wants to do is to shove Veneziano under it.

“Ve, Roma, are you sure Spain won’t mind me going instead of you?”

“Ve, Roma, do you want me to go to Germany’s instead? I know how much you hate his wurst.”

“Ve, Roma, w-why do you look so scary?!”

The better question is, ‘ve, Roma, why does Spain love me when he already has you?’ but that is something Romano isn’t going to confront until he’s in Berlin and dragging Prussia out for a night of drinking and laughing at someone else’s misfortunes. Drinking with Prussia is the best way, Romano has discovered, to feel sorry for yourself. Not only are you eventually cheered by the sight of Prussia sobbing into his mug, but since that’s what everyone else is watching too no one will notice any expression of sadness from _you_. That night Romano drinks, doesn’t pine, and gets Prussia to tell him embarrassing stories about Spain until everything that comes out of Prussia’s mouth becomes a whirlwind of why Hungary is such a tease.

Across the continent, there is a ring waiting in Spain’s pocket and the most beautiful man in the world in front of him. They’re sitting in the special corner of a restaurant, slightly removed from the rest of the crowd but still able to see the other patrons. It’s the perfect spot for two people who love people so much. Many things about the night are a perfect match for them, and it’s all thanks to Romano. Spain doesn’t know how he would have been able to throw this together without Romano’s help. Veneziano and Spain share so much, they do, but their interests don’t overlap in the ways Spain would guess first. Restaurants are nice, but Spain always envisioned doing this in his own home, or Veneziano’s. Just the two of them, and candles, and their hearts.

According to Romano, Veneziano is more of a fan of special spots, and to propose in a special spot you need to have one first. So Spain is here, and Veneziano is here, and they are building something.

But for some reason Veneziano keeps apologizing, ve, Romano would be here if he could. Veneziano smiles when Spain smiles, but he sits back when Spain leans forward, and it’s all wrong. Something is wrong.

Obviously Spain needs more help. He excuses himself and ends up hiding behind the potted plant next to the restrooms, phone in hand. If he can get into contact with Romano he’ll be fine. Spain trusts Romano. Spain _needs_ Romano.

Romano doesn’t answer the texts.

Romano doesn’t answer the calls.

Romano doesn’t call back two minutes later, either, with a familiar ‘what is wrong with you and how the fuck can you type so fast?’

When Spain gets back to his seat he says, “Vene! We should hang out like this again sometime!” even though he meant to say something romantic, and Veneziano leaves with a wave and a promise to get Romano to call Spain back as soon as possible.

Hours later Spain can’t shake the strangeness and Romano still hasn’t called. The ring, something elegant and timeless Romano had pointed to with a shrewd eye, burns a hole in Spain’s pocket until he retrieves it and sets in onto his table. They stare at each other. They don’t really stare at each other, because the ring doesn’t have eyes, but Spain feels like it’s staring all the same. He hears a voice in his head, saying ‘you really fucked that one up’ and ‘if I had been there you would have been fine’ and ‘you’re out of bread again, dumbshit, get your lazy ass to the market because I refuse to set foot into a house that doesn’t have bread in it.’

Spain goes out, even though it will be hours until there is bread to buy, and sits in front of his favorite bakery to wait. Generally, when the voice in his head starts sounding like Romano, Spain knows that he’s hit a low point and everything will get better soon, much better, unless the voice is actually Romano at Spain’s door and Spain’s about to receive some very undeserved angry hellos to his stomach. Generally, Spain does what the voice tells him to. Spain has learned to humor crazy voices that sound like Romano.

Similarly, Spain has learned to humor Romano.

In a way he’s not even humoring anymore. He agrees with Romano’s words more than he ever thought he would.

That’s a little bit terrifying, to be honest, because Spain knows most of what Romano says isn’t true. Squirrels still feature largely in Romano’s excuses and all right, that part is cute now that Spain doesn’t have to wash up after it so much, but Spain knows enough to know that even beyond the squirrels Romano spends a lot of his life bluffing. If Spain could figure out the things behind the bluffs he thinks Romano would be a lot happier.

Because Spain would fix whatever it is that’s making Romano want to bluff instead of say what he really thinks. Bosses do things like that, and even though Spain can’t tell Romano what to do anymore, he’s still his Boss. He’s the person who cares when Romano can’t sleep, the person who cooks three meals a day for Romano when he’s at Spain’s house, the person who makes sure the sheets are clean. He’s the person who kisses Romano hello and then cheers him on when he’s approving legislation even though Romano says that’s weird. He’s the person who loves Romano more than anybody else, save perhaps Rome and Veneziano, and he loves Romano in a similar way of course but—differently.

That’s who Bosses are.

And right now this Boss needs his Henchman.

And right now this Boss only has a late night run for bread he doesn’t want to eat by himself.

He needs help.

“I really thought I was more popular than this,” people used to visit him all the time, none of this empty house business, “but— France will be awake.”

Blinking once gets Spain to his northern border. Two steps bring him to a brick wall, old and low and crumbling. He sits and waits, and not a few minutes later he is no longer alone. “You know how much I adore you,” strange, Spain’s stomach shouldn’t feel so cold, “really, but you couldn’t have picked a better time?”

France claps Spain on the back with the hand that was caressing Spain’s chest moments before. As soon as he felt a third nation cross over his borders, France knew who it had to be. England made a fuss about the interruption, naturally, but France whispered _things_ into his ear, and all was made well. Ten minutes. England accepted ten minutes worth of delay, and France didn’t bother to waste any of those ten minutes with putting on clothes, and the night air is chilly.

Ten minutes.

“France,” Spain starts, “have you ever been in love?”

Ridiculous questions make their way to France’s ears all the time, mostly in the form of a brusque ‘can I do the cooking tonight then?’ but never before has France heard the like of this. France is the _nation of love_. He sits quickly, ignoring the cold stone, and wraps an arm around Spain’s shoulders. “What advice do you need from your big brother? I’ll help in any way I can.”

“You’re not older than me,” _details_ , “and. How did you tell when you fell in love with,” Spain’s eyebrow twitches, “how did you tell? How did you know he loved you too?”

Ah, this is serious, then. These are things Spain should already know. These are things Spain _does_ already know, and France idly wonders, as he massages Spain’s back, what has tipped Spain so far off his axis. “I kissed him.”

“Yes, and after that?”

“That’s all it took. Kiss him: kiss him and you’ll know.”

Spain takes France’s words to heart, even though France leaves in a tremendous rush after giving them. All Spain needs to do is muster up the courage to kiss Veneziano, and to get Veneziano to kiss him back, and then they will be together. They will be happy.

Returning home, Spain waits for Romano’s call. Spain and Veneziano are going to be the personifications of bliss together, but for that to happen Spain needs to meet with Romano in person. He doesn’t trust any of this to telephones. When Romano finally, groggily answers Spain’s third ‘maybe he didn’t see any of my messages and if I dial one more time he’ll pick up’ check-in call, Spain updates him on the love situation.

The squawk Romano makes is weird.

“Spain?”

“Roma?”

“You are such an idiot.”

“But you’ll help me?”

And despite the fact that he’s hungover and Prussia is sleep-clinging to his foot, and despite the heaviness in Romano’s heart, he _does_ because he is a chump and he wants Spain to sound this excited forever.

Together they plan three more dates, all of which end in disaster because, in Romano’s words, “how is it even fucking possible to make him come away thinking you’re friends when you take him goddamned dancing and then god **fucking** damned stargazing? How can you screw up so much in so little time?!” Spain considers that Romano’s way of saying ‘Spain you’re the best’ deep, deep down, but they both agree that perhaps it’s better if Romano plans these events by himself from now on.

Additions from Spain are the ones that lead the fastest to chaste, empty kisses on the cheek and Veneziano going home early, and Spain doesn’t know why.

“You don’t know him as well as I do.”

“But I know _you_. Roma, I can get you to blush in a second but the only time he’s blushed on a date with me was when we went to the zoo and he liked the animals, ah,” Spain sighs at his webcam, “is Boss really such a failure?”

Romano scowls back because this is the second ‘conference’ they’ve had in as many days. His liver can’t take the number of outings with Prussia Romano’s going to need after all this is over. “Yes, and for fuck’s sake stop calling yourself that.” He pauses. “And you’ve never made me blush ever so shut up.”

“…Remember that one time in the park—”

Romano flushes violently, and hates himself.

Still, he plans date after date. He visits Germany—Prussia, really, and slowly the vicious pleasure he gets from watching Prussia make a total drunken fool of himself begins to wane. Romano can’t keep this up. It’s time to fold.

Luckily for him, if luck is really mercy in disguise, tonight is the night of the last date he should ever have to plan. Tonight is the night he has dragged Spain to Rome, has given him a bottle of wine and Veneziano’s newest address, and has sent him off to just fuck the ve-ing twerp already. Sure, Spain’s version of that will most likely end up as the first romantic kiss between the two of them that hasn’t failed horribly, but it’s the same thing in the end.

In the end, who could kiss Spain like that and not want to keep him?

Curiously, Spain thinks the same thing as he sits on Veneziano’s couch and waits for Veneziano to get back with a pair of glasses. The something wrong feels as something and as wrong as ever, and even though Romano slapped him and told him to just kiss Veneziano when Veneziano opened the door, Spain couldn’t. He knows he wants to, but he can’t. Until he can, Veneziano will never know what he’s missing. Spain needs to act.

“Vene?”

“Ve?”

He appears from his kitchen, with two glasses partially full of whatever was in the bottle Romano pushed at Spain earlier. Spain bets it’s Veneziano’s favorite because Romano knows all those things, and is prepared for all those things, and is generally the best like that.

“Can you sit?”

“Of course!” Veneziano says, and he does. Not too far, but not very close either. The distance is polite.

Spain gulps. It’s now or never. “Can I kiss you?”

Veneziano blinks, smiles, and presses his lips to Spain’s instead of answering.

The world doesn’t light up, but it might later, Spain will give it a moment, so he closes his eyes in advance and prepares for the rush of feelings he’s surely soon to receive from Veneziano. And feelings he gets. But—these are all his own. These are tremendous and world-shattering and true. There’s a beating, rushing, thrilling, racing _something_ in his head and it isn’t Veneziano, was never Veneziano, can never be Veneziano.

Spain opens his eyes to find Veneziano staring at him. Their lips are still connected, and they’re still kissing in a way, although that’s the last thing on Spain’s mind and Veneziano looks more amused than anything. He knows. Has he known the entire time, Spain wonders, and if he has, why didn’t he say anything? Why didn’t he tilt his head to the side in that way that still makes Spain want to ruffle his hair? Why didn’t he tell Spain this was a mistake?

“Vene?”

This isn’t some slow realization.

“Mmm?”

They both know it, and they both know if they need to talk about it later they can.

“I need to—” Spain leaves.

Spain is in love with Veneziano—this has always been true, but it’s still not right. Spain is in love with Veneziano but he isn’t in love with Veneziano romantically.

Veneziano knows this.

Now Spain knows this too. He feels stalled, as though he’s reached the top of a hill and can’t go any further because he’s gone and shifted into the wrong gear again. There are cars behind him, impatience builds, but at the same time there is nothing he can do or change, and it’s frustrating, but it’s also empty, a lamp suddenly lit in the pitch dark, and it _is_ a change, just a change, and.

Rome is anything but quiet at night and Spain is glad of the distractions forming a cocoon around him as he moves. Each step takes him further away from Veneziano’s apartment, but in his mind, he isn’t leaving something. No, in his mind Spain is getting closer. He has a destination.

Streets fly by, and Spain heads for his square. There are plenty of places in Rome that would welcome him, and plenty more that wouldn’t give a fuck about another foreigner with his goddamn emotional problems sobbing it up because the city didn’t live up to his dreams, dammit. There are always plenty of places for Spain. But whenever he’s in Rome, regardless of why, Spain tends to gravitate to his square, Piazza di Spagna, named for him. He tends to sit on the steps and watch the world as it passes, and think about how adorable it is, really, that Romano named such a huge place in the city of his heart all for Spain, that he kept it that way.

Spain tends to sigh, to bite his lips to stop the chuckles from escaping. Once someone stopped and asked him ‘who she was’, but that happens all the time to Spain. He can’t help being happy.

In fact, it happens the most when Spain is thinking about Romano, which is often, because Spain loves Romano.

Spain is in love with Romano.

Oh.

This time Spain won’t be going to Piazza di Spagna. Instead he cuts left at the next intersection, re-routes, and breaks into a flat run. He’s sprinting by the time he’s met the river and he’s not as young as he used to be, but he’s also practically immortal and that helps. Spain can’t slow down, and he can’t stop. Not until he gets to where he needs to be.

Immortal or almost, Spain reaches Romano’s apartment out of breath, slightly sweaty, and a little tired. Hopefully once he does what he came to do he can draw a bath and rest it off. Romano’s baths are always nice and spacious, and although he doesn’t always have hot water Spain might not need it anyway if this goes well.

The buzzer on the panel by the door reads L. Vargas. Spain ignores it because Spain has a key— a key that’s in the wrong capital, Spain left it in Madrid, _**how could he leave it in Madrid**_?

Though.

Up there, on the fourth floor… there are open windows. If Spain feels like fooling himself he can hear Romano’s voice drifting out of them, deep and familiar and home. If Spain feels like a fool he can hear a different, pitch accompany it, higher and completely new. Both options get Spain staring at the window instead of where he needs to be, so. So he presses the buzzer and thinks before Romano has time to answer up above. Spain spreads his thoughts out and tries to make them obvious. More obvious. Romano always says Spain’s too obvious, but he doesn’t want subtlety now so that’s all right. Right?

The answering click of the door unlocking can’t come fast enough, and as soon as there is space for his body to pass through, Spain catapults himself into the building. It’s pretty, and he’s said as much before many times. Marble stairs are more trouble than they’re worth, now, and Spain can’t be bothered with appreciating the fountain in the courtyard.

And then.

And then he’s at Romano’s door and the enormous locks are clicking out of place and the door is opening and Spain isn’t ready but he’s more than ready but he can’t but he needs to but the shape exiting the apartment is the figure of a woman, _is_ a woman, and this.

This is slightly unexpected.

Her lipstick is smeared and her face is cast in a sour expression that doesn’t suit her. She looks as though someone offered her pearls before grabbing them away at the last second, handing her mud and stones instead. Strangest of all, she spits at Spain’s feet before she leaves; at Spain’s, not at Romano’s, and her blouse is skewed and her lipstick is _smeared_.

Once she disappears into the stairwell, Romano appears at the door and Spain forgets about the human’s ire and her lipstick. Almost. He only almost forgets because Romano’s shirt is untucked, his cuffs unbuttoned and bunched to his elbows. Beyond that Romano looks none the worse for wear. He looks the same as he always does, like he’s waiting for Spain to stop embarrassing him and get on with it.

“I love you.”

Spain doesn’t disappoint. Saying it feels… more. Saying it feels more than saying it to Veneziano ever felt, but that’s not the true indicator, and if it worked with Veneziano then Spain knows France’s advice will hold true again. He slips his hand, palm damp, around the back of Romano’s neck, and steps forward. If this feeling is the feeling Spain thinks it is, if this is really the kind of love that makes poets waste away, then the kiss will reveal it. Spain dips his head and hopes.

Thinking becomes difficult after their lips meet. After their lips meet, Spain can’t tell what either of them are feeling or loving because that would require the ability to transcribe lightning clouds of emotion into letters and words, flat and incapable of collecting every burning charge racing through Spain’s arms and mind and soul. They kiss.

Romano makes a muffled protest, but Spain doesn’t stop because Romano doesn’t stop either. They kiss.

The world doesn’t light up this time, either, but again Spain gives it a moment. The moment passes. The world never lights up, he doesn’t see fireworks or hear a chorus of angels. And if there’s _any_ nation that would have a chorus of angels following him around for moments like this, well, it’s Romano. What Spain does feel is better. He feels Romano, and hope, and love, and a calm _rightness_ that he wants to feel until their lands are swallowed by the sea and even then past that, on, and on and forever, and.

And they kiss. Spain’s other hand joins its fellow at the base of Romano’s neck and Romano’s arms settle somewhere around Spain’s waist, and they kiss.

Spain opens his eyes. Romano’s are closed, clenched tight.

Yes, Spain is in love with Romano. And Romano is in love with Spain too. And they kiss.

And then Romano draws away and punches Spain in the jaw, which Spain maybe should have been expecting, but for some reason didn’t. “Wh-you-wha-fuuu—”

When Romano gets angry, gets really, really angry, the rage funnels up his throat and makes it impossible for complete and coherent words to pass his lips ( _which Spain would like to return to kissing, yes_ ). Of course, the same thing happens when Romano gets really, really embarrassed and Spain’s pretty sure this time is a mixture of both. Still, he knows Romano will stop being angry once Spain apologizes. “I love you. I’ve realized it- now- or,” Spain’s voice breaks to a whisper, “it took me a long time to finally see it.”

“No,” Romano bites out, flat, before stepping back into his apartment, “No you are _not_ doing this now.” At Spain’s confused expression he continues. Romano always has to explain things for Spain. He’s become pretty good at it, from explaining electric lights to VCRs to why Spain is such an enormous idiot. This, though, this isn’t something Romano should have to explain. This is something Romano should be left alone for, with his candles and his sad songs, and the Sicilian human he’d halfheartedly taken in for the night ( _‘like **“masturbation”**?! Fucking hell, Spain, how could you ever do that with your people?!’_ ). “Where did you just come from?”

“The steps,” Spain says, following Romano in. The door shuts behind him, heavy, but he doesn’t lock it because that would mean looking away.

“I meant _who were you with_!?”

“Your brother.”

“And what were you…” Romano can’t tell if Spain has caught on or not yet. Odds are no, Spain will never catch on, and Romano will have to live with whatever the fuck he thinks up next. If that’s ‘you and your brother should _both_ marry me!’ Romano will kill Spain here and now. It will be for the honor of Romano’s broken heart. “What were you about to do with him?”

Spain has caught on. “Attempt to ask him to marry me for the fourteenth time.”

“Exactly,” Romano swallows, thick and regretful, “now get out.”

He points to the door. It is dark in his front hallway, but Romano knows Spain knows the way out. This isn’t the first time Romano has kicked Spain out, but maybe, perhaps, this will be the last time.

What? “No! I’ve realized my dream was stupid! The thing I thought I felt for the both of you was stupid, because in reality the thing I feel for the both of you is the exact reverse of the thing I thought I felt!”

The fuck? “What?”

There is no clearer way Spain can phrase it, but if Romano doesn’t understand then everything is lost. Gone. “Come here.” Spain needs to kiss Romano again. Spain needs Romano in his arms again, to show him in that perfect way that Spain understands now. He understands that the pull he feels whenever he’s at home, alone and aching, is only for Romano.

“No!”

“Romano…” Spain moves when Romano doesn’t and opens his arms. He waits, standing there, because yes. Yes, he’s hurt Romano. Tonight, and through so many previous nights that Spain doesn’t know how Romano can still stand to be around him.

“Like hell I will, you fucking bastard!”

After years of disappointment and weeks of bitterness, Romano knows how he can stand to be around Spain.

“Romano…”

Romano also knows that Spain will be able to tell why if Romano so much as breathes in his direction. Because if Romano does that he won’t be able to stop himself from running forward and jumping into Spain’s arms; he will take Spain’s arms, claim them for his own under the banner of ‘he is mine’ and Spain will finally, finally know how much Romano has wanted this.

“Fuck off.”

Too many years of hiding have passed for Romano to break down so easily. He can’t do this.

So Spain does it instead, arms open. “I love you. And this time I mean it like you mean it: not like a friend, or a brother, or- or a guardian. Not like anything I used to feel.”

“Why?” Romano asks, fast.

“Because,” Spain answers, faster.

“You’re going to give me a real answer or else…” Romano doesn’t know what else is, “or _else…_!” But despite himself, and despite classical physics, Romano is in Spain’s arms and he doesn’t know how he got there. He doesn’t remember running, or headbutting Spain in the chest, or pulling the godforsaken idiot close.

Even if Romano doesn’t register those things, Spain lives them gloriously and relaxes into the hold. It’s going to be okay now. They’re going to be okay. “You’re really cute when you’re angry, you know? Your eyes get really big,” Spain winks even though Romano can’t see him, “It’s sexy.”

“I don’t need you,” Romano mutters into Spain’s shirt. He’s got the ace now; he _is_ the king, flying powerful. Spain is the obvious, oblivious queen. And with Romano’s hand they’ve both won.

“But you want me.”

Yeah. Yeah, Romano does. Despite it all, Romano does. “You have a problem with that?” Lifting his head off of Spain’s chest, Romano half-snarls in Spain’s face for interrupting his victory embrace. “Because you should be fucking grateful I’m gracious enough to take you after all the hell you put me through. You’re not even worth it.” Except for the fact that he is.

“I love you too.”

Romano loves Spain, has loved him for what feels like forever. He used to doubt, in the fear and the dark, that Spain would ever pull his head from his ass and _see_ that.

Now he doesn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [aoi00hime](http://aoi00hime.livejournal.com/) for the 2011 Spamano holiday exchange.


End file.
